The first sign of the festival was the music. It began at dawn, a lone flute piping from the baker's stall as the ovens roared. By midday, Greystone was transformed. The market square, usually worn and dusty, bloomed with color: banners stretched from one cottage to another, cloth dyed in bright greens and deep reds, the smell of honey and roasting fowl heavy in the air.
Shithead had never missed a festival, but this year felt different. He stood taller than most of the village boys now, his shoulders broad, hands roughened from hauling wood and stone. At eleven, he was closer to a young man than a child, though his heart still leapt like a boy's at the sight of the ribbons strung between cottages.
Elira fussed with his tunic, smoothing the fabric though it had already wrinkled. "Stand proud," she said, her voice a mixture of love and warning. "This day belongs to everyone."
Maren rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "And remember—don't break anything you can't mend."
Shithead laughed, tusks showing, though he understood his father's meaning. His strength had already made him a subject of whispers. Today, he promised himself, he would be careful. Today, he wanted only to belong.
Alan found him first, his grin wide, hair combed badly. "You ready? I heard the barrel-lift is first this year."
Mira arrived just behind, braids swinging, her eyes sharp with mischief. "If Shithead enters, there's no contest. He'll lift it one-handed."
Shithead shook his head. "It's not about winning. It's about being part of it."
Mira arched a brow. "That's what people say when they're afraid they'll lose."
Tomas stumbled into them with a pie already half-eaten, crumbs dusting his tunic. "Festival food is the only reason to be here. Contests are for fools."
Lysa joined last, quiet as always, holding a small bunch of daisies she meant to leave at the shrine. "It's good luck," she said softly, tucking one into Shithead's belt. "For balance."
The bell rang, calling the first competitors forward. The barrel-lift had always been the crowd's favorite. A cask of ale, small for men but heavy for children, had to be hoisted to the shoulder and held until the judge counted to ten.
Alan went first from their group, managing seven before he dropped the barrel with a grunt. Mira clapped politely, though her smirk said she'd expected no more.
Tomas attempted three before collapsing with a dramatic groan, earning laughter from the crowd. "Too heavy," he wheezed. "This contest is rigged."
When Shithead stepped forward, the air shifted. Whispers passed through the crowd, a rustle sharper than the breeze. He bent, gripped the barrel, and lifted. The weight pressed into him, but he steadied it against his shoulder and fixed his eyes on the judge.
"One!" the man called, the crowd echoing. "Two! Three!"
Children cheered. Men muttered. "Strong as a grown man," someone whispered.
"Orc blood," another said.
By the time "Ten!" rang out, Shithead's arms shook with the strain. He lowered the barrel carefully to the ground, pride sparking in his chest despite the whispers.
Alan clapped him on the back. "You held it longer than I've ever seen."
Mira tilted her head. "Maybe strength isn't everything. Wait for the race."
The footrace followed, a dash across the square with quick turns between barrels and benches. Shithead surged forward, his long strides carrying him ahead—until he stumbled on a sharp turn, his balance lost. Mira darted past him, her laughter bright as she crossed the finish first.
"Told you," she crowed, hands on her hips.
Shithead bent, catching his breath. "Next time."
She smirked. "Next time, you'll still be slower."
Alan finished second, Tomas tripped spectacularly, and Lysa came last but smiling. Together, they laughed as though the whole contest had been theirs alone.
The afternoon filled with more games—tug-of-war, archery with blunt arrows, balancing on beams. Shithead excelled at some, failed others, but each trial left him fuller. When he won, his friends cheered louder than the crowd. When he failed, they clapped his back and teased him until he laughed.
The final event was the climbing pole—a tall log smoothed and greased, with a bright ribbon tied at the top. One by one, children tried and slid back down, their hands raw. Tomas nearly made it halfway before losing his grip. Mira climbed three-quarters, her braid whipping as she clung, before slipping with a frustrated yelp.
Shithead stepped forward last. He felt the eyes on him—some eager, some wary. He pressed his hands to the slick wood and began to climb. Slowly, steadily, he rose. His muscles burned, his arms shook, but he refused to let go. Inch by inch, he climbed until his fingers closed around the ribbon. He tore it free and held it high.
Cheers rang out, louder than any before. But behind them, the whispers lingered.
"Not natural."
"Orc's strength."
"Best keep an eye on him."
That night, lanterns lit the square. Music swelled, villagers danced, children laughed. Shithead sat with his friends on the edge of it all, the ribbon tied around his wrist. Alan grinned, Mira teased, Tomas stuffed his face, Lysa hummed with the music.
Elira and Maren watched from a distance, pride softening their faces. For once, Shithead let himself believe that the warmth around him might last.
Yet as the last song faded, he saw Old Garrick's eyes from across the square—hard, cold, unblinking. And though the ribbon was still tied to his wrist, bright and real, Shithead felt the shadow of those eyes follow him into the dark.